


harebells

by saunatonttu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Academy Era, Drinking, M/M, Original Character(s), Unrequited Love, no beta we die like Rodrigue's romantic hopes and dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saunatonttu/pseuds/saunatonttu
Summary: There's an inn in the nearby town that Lambert wants to introduce Rodrigue to.Rodrigue ought to have seen what was coming from miles away, but as usual, he goes along with his friend's suggestion.
Relationships: Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius (onesided), Lambert Egitte Fraldarius & Original Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26
Collections: Rodrigue Week 2020





	harebells

“Up to something again, aren’t you?”

Captain Jeralt’s booming voice didn’t make the smile on Lambert’s face twitch in the least, although the captain of the knights of Seiros couldn’t have come at a worse time. Or a better time, if Rodrigue were honest with himself. He did wish someone would stop them and force them back to the dormitory, after all. Well-built and intimidating captain of the knights could very well be that someone.

Lambert wasn’t intimidated as he gave a polite bow to his elder. Rodrigue hastily mimicked the movement under Jeralt’s stern gaze as Lambert said, “Of course not, captain. My friend and I are out on a short walk, that’s all. A wonderful night for that, is it not?”

Jeralt eyed at Lambert with considering but mostly unimpressed eyes. Rodrigue’s gaze shifted to the blade tied behind the captain’s back, a huge longsword that looked as though it could cleave a man in half. Crudely crafted, compared to the Sword of Moralta hanging on Duke Fraldarius’ study wall, but strong-looking nevertheless even beneath the dimming sunlight.

Blade Breaker, people called him, but looking at that stern face made Rodrigue wonder whether People Breaker ought to have been a better moniker. There was something very mercenary about him – and he had heard rumors about his previous life that suggested as much. Rodrigue’s lord father had always said they were the untrustworthy type, just as quick to turn their blade on their employer as their enemies.

Still, the church and lady Rhea seemed to think plenty high of Jeralt. (As did Lambert, who was _dying_ to see Jeralt take part in a jousting tourney.)

“A little late for a walk, kid,” Jeralt said in a tone that suggested his patience was already wearing thin. Beside him, Jeralt’s stallion huffed, as if agreeing with his rider’s annoyance. Jeralt’s grip on the reins tightened as he narrowed his eyes at Lambert and Rodrigue. “And don’t think I don’t know what your professors say about you, too. It’s past your curfew time.”

They had been intending to sneak out through the stables and then marketplace, which was still bustling even as night fell, but as luck would have it, Jeralt and his knights had just returned from a mission. Rodrigue would have liked to take it as a sign from the goddess to give up and return to the dormitories, but Lambert was not one to give up without a fight.

Which, in this case, meant trying to charm the often stoic-looking man, whose squire did most of the talking for him most times. Said squire wasn’t around now, though.

“We won’t be out for much longer,” Lambert said with a much too sincere smile for someone that didn’t mean what he was saying. Rodrigue suppressed a smile of his own as he too looked at Jeralt pleadingly. He might not be _as_ persuasive as Lambert, but he still got away with many more things than he really ought to at the Academy. Lambert continued speaking for both of them, though. “Afternoon training left us a little restless, and…”

Jeralt sighed, shaking his head at one of the stable boys that had come to fetch his horse. The boy quickly backed off, and Jeralt’s stare returned to the two students. “I’ve heard all the excuses under the sky, kid. Now go, unless you want me to drag you to have a talk with lady Rhea.”

But before Lambert and Rodrigue could even begin to turn away, a feminine voice rang through the stable grounds, subdued but subtly excited regardless. “Jeralt! You returned already!”

Rodrigue had never seen Jeralt’s face melt so much as it did then, at the call of his name. “Sitri,” he murmured, and – goddess, was Rodrigue hallucinating? – smiled more softly than any student had seen the captain of the knights of Seiros do. Lambert pulled Rodrigue away, but Jeralt’s attention remained on the woman that had come to the stable grounds. Looking behind, Rodrigue caught sight of green hair and pale clothes, most likely belonging to a nun. Jeralt continued, “I gotta unsaddle him and I’ll be right with you real quick.”

“Can’t I help, this once? You are always doing everything yourself…” Her voice faded quickly as Lambert encouraged Rodrigue to follow after him with a few insistent tugs at Rodrigue’s arm.

Jeralt’s loud, boisterous laugh was the last thing Rodrigue’s ears caught, and then he and Lambert were already gone from the stables and rushing down to the marketplace. The gatekeeper was nodding off, as usual at this time of evening. Rodrigue still found it impressing how he managed to sleep while standing, even after the many months he’d spent at the Academy.

The marketplace was still bustling, this time with merchants emptying wagons filled to the brim of either fruits and other edibles or weapons and accessories. No one paid attention to two – or more – students walking through the chaos and then out of the monastery gates. Only then did Lambert release his hold on Rodrigue’s arm, which Rodrigue rather regretted, even despite the bruises that were sure to form.

“Whew, that went better than I feared,” Lambert said, not sounding worried at all, and grinning like a madman.

Rodrigue sighed, long-suffering yet endlessly patient. “The next time he sees us, we will end up doing his stable chores, I am certain.”

“It’s not like you mind that kind of work,” Lambert said, laughing. “Or did you suddenly become more like your lord father, Rod?”

“I don’t dislike horses,” Rodrigue huffed, turning away when Lambert’s gaze threatened to catch his. Sunset only made things like eye contact painfully more romantic than necessary, and Rodrigue had had enough of his own foolishness. “I do dislike you getting us in needless trouble.”

Lambert’s arm fell around his shoulders with a _thump_ , sending Rodrigue stumbling onward for a few steps from the sheer force of it. “You always say that,” Lambert said, more somber but not quite managing to hide his amusement, “yet you always follow me.”

 _Against my better judgment_ , Rodrigue thought, _and just because a heart is a relentless, stubborn little thing._

“What else would I do?” Rodrigue asked, his tone resigned and his body dangerously close to leaning closer into Lambert’s warmth as they walked further away from the monastery and toward the town. Were he a braver man – or still nine – he might have shrugged Lambert’s arm off to take hold of his hand instead. Rodrigue continued, with a small smile creeping on his face and into his voice, “Someone has to keep an eye on you, Your Highness.”

“None of that tonight, Rod,” Lambert said, his free hand’s fingers reaching out to pinch Rodrigue’s nose in retaliation for his words. “We’re just two friends out for a night of fun, for once.”

He always did dislike formalities between friends, but Rodrigue couldn’t help remembering how things _ought_ to be between them.

Still, he couldn’t help but indulge Lambert with a short laugh and by saying, “Fine, fine – whatever you say, Lambert.”

It was a habit he ought to get rid of, or else he would be an awful advisor to Lambert in future. For the time being, however, it mattered little when compared to the firm squeeze on his shoulder and Lambert’s warm, contented laugh.

Lambert was like a spring in human form, full of life but not yet at the peak of it and so all the mesmerizing for the potential and promise he contained.

And Rodrigue was hopelessly transfixed.

* * *

They went to an inn Lambert claimed Rufus had introduced him to, which admittedly wasn’t a sign of great things to come. Rodrigue held his tongue and restrained himself from lifting his eyebrows at Lambert when he told him that. Even Rufus’ ideas deserved the benefit of the doubt… sometimes.

Thinking about Rufus Blaiddyd for too long filled Rodrigue with awkwardness and heavy regret, however, and so he shoved Lambert’s brother far away into the distant corners of his mind.

For an establishment that had Rufus’ recommendations, it was a decidedly decent-looking place both outside and inside, much to Rodrigue’s surprise.

He remarked as much to Lambert, who gave him a crooked smile before saying, “We don’t agree on much, but we do have similar tastes in matters like this.”

Rodrigue thought the smile looked sad, but he said nothing on it.

The dining area of the inn was wide: more than plenty room even for those that did not intend to stay for the night, and more than plenty of tables even after a few of them had been pushed together for the sake of dancing. One such dance was going on when Lambert and Rodrigue entered, and both their eyes were drawn to the barefooted dancers on the connected tables.

They weren’t like nobles at ballroom dances – nor were they Garreg Mach’s trained dancers. They probably hadn’t had any dance lessons in their lives, considering their commoner clothing, and yet watching them left an undeniable impression. The other onlookers clearly agreed as they hooted and cheered the two on, clapping loudly as the wild dance grew swifter, the skirts of a woman’s dress flying about as her steps led her across the tables.

Looking to his side, Rodrigue saw Lambert’s gaze sticking to her, enraptured and admiring.

 _Ah,_ Rodrigue’s heart sank. Perhaps Lambert had taken a little too much after Rufus in certain other aspects, too.

Even as they went to grab a table of their own, Lambert’s gaze kept flickering back to the duo dancing across the tables. At the back of the wide hall, Rodrigue spotted the musicians – one had a violin, and others held instruments Rodrigue couldn’t quite make out in the dim candlelight. He heard an occasional flute amid the other melodies, and it pulled a slight smile out of him as he followed Lambert to one of the small square tables meant for two.

“Homely atmosphere, isn’t it?” Lambert asked as they sat down, blue eyes glinting as they took a quick glance around once more. Under the gentle light cast by both candles and magic, the crown prince’s features appeared sharped, more defined, and even handsomer than usual.

Not to mention his clothes – for once Lambert had shed blue completely, having abandoned his academy uniform just as Rodrigue had, and instead wore nondescript brown cape around his shoulders with a cotton white tunic beneath it. Despite the lingering cold of the barely passed winter, which marked the approaching departure from the academy, Rodrigue had caught the steep neckline of that tunic earlier and gotten a little too big a glimpse of bare skin beneath the fabric.

That glimpse of bare skin was nowhere to be seen now, and so Rodrigue wasn’t horribly distracted as he returned Lambert’s smile with a strained one of his own. “It is,” he admitted. _For something Rufus recommended_ went unsaid, but the words hung between them until Rodrigue glanced toward where the musicians leaned comfortable against cushioned sofas while they played. “It’s rather different from what we’re used to, but…”

It wasn’t the bad kind of different.

As if reading his thoughts, Lambert grinned and said, “Not the bad kind of, though. Right?”

Rodrigue’s smile was mild but agreeable, and that was the only answer he could give to his friend before a serving lady came to their table to get their orders, throwing in her own suggestion on what of the inn’s madam’s cooking they ought to try.

“She has made some of her famous pies again,” she said with a conspiring twinkle in her eyes. Her words were for both of them, but her gaze lingered on Lambert. She could not hide the upward curve of her mouth as she went on, “I know you had some the last time you came by, Egitte.”

Rodrigue’s gaze dropped to the surface of the table, though he knew it was impolite. Neither she nor Lambert seemed to notice, busy giving each other the kinds of smiles that made Rodrigue’s insides twist with discomfort.

When she left their table with their orders, Rodrigue lifted his gaze and eyebrows at Lambert. “Egitte?” he asked dryly. “Really?”

In the tales his nanny used to read to him when he was much younger, using one’s middle name as a fake name might perhaps have been a devious not-exactly-a-lie, but considering Lambert’s middle name was a purposely altered and butchered version of an already rare name…

Lambert’s smile turned sheepish. “It was the only thing that came to my mind at the time.”

Rodrigue already dreaded having to protect this too honest man from the politics of their own country. He had _no_ subtlety, only reckless straightforwardness that had gotten both of them hurt before. The scars running along his spine ached at the memory the thoughts brought, and Rodrigue bit down on his lower lip to keep the approaching grimace at bay.

“Of course,” Rodrigue sighed. The sarcasm filtered into his voice, unbidden and unasked, when he continued, “It isn’t as though people here know that the crown prince is attending the academy this year or anything of the like, after all.”

“Oh, I’m certain they _know_ ,” Lambert said, eyes crinkling as sheepishness left him as soon as it had appeared. His cheek pressed down against the knuckles of his closed hand as he looked around the hall again, eyes lingering on the dancing tables. His mouth tilted into a lopsided smile again. “They just respect my wishes of staying incognito… I think.”

“If you say so,” Rodrigue allowed, thinking back on the way their server had spoken to Lambert. Warm, sweet tone that should have been able to melt snow and ice up north. If she was charmed, Rodrigue would be the last person to blame her for it.

He had been charmed a long, _long_ time ago, after all.

At eighteen, he ought to know better already, but telling that to his heart was a trickier thing than the handling of a spear.

* * *

Their server was one of the innkeeper’s daughters, and her name was Lucia. She hadn’t introduced herself to Rodrigue, but Lambert knew her from his previous visits and was eager to share the information with his friend. Rodrigue paid attention, as he always did when his friend spoke, but he could not ignore the ominous feeling swelling in his stomach the longer Lambert continued telling him about her.

When Lambert ended his explanation with a wistful sigh and one last look across the hall, Rodrigue knew what was coming.

“She’s been interesting to get to know,” Lambert said, his voice warm and pleasant to the ear. It was more than politeness – more than just well-crafted decency the nobility liked to be known for. Sincerity was so difficult to find among nobility, even among the children. Rodrigue had struck gold to have been given such a friend – truly, if things had gone a little more differently, he would be tasked with making do with Rufus instead.

Rodrigue had always liked that about Lambert, and now, combined with the way Lambert’s head tilted slightly to lean his cheek on his knuckles, it made his heart shiver.

“She’s been helping her mother around the place since she was eight,” Lambert continued fondly. “Both because she was made to and because she wanted to, she says. And from what I’ve seen, she does get things done. A marvel, she is.”

Said marvel brought them two pints of beer, setting them down in front of them before leaning down close to whisper something to Lambert’s ear over the sound of music blaring across the hall. Her brown hair slipped down from the tight ponytail it had been tied into, one curl caressing the side of her neck, and Rodrigue saw the way Lambert’s gaze trailed off to it. Saw the twitch of Lambert’s fingers as they went around the pint set in front of him. Rodrigue’s heart sank, and he found himself peering at the dark surface of beer in the large mug he’d been handed.

Lucia left soon again, this time to fetch beer for the men that knew to yell her name over the other noise around the hall. Exasperation made her steps swift, audible over the lull between songs and the chatter among the people gathered.

Lambert’s sigh pulled Rodrigue’s gaze upwards, only to find a wistful smile lingering on his friend’s mouth. “She really is quite nice,” Lambert said to him. “Awful at anything sewing-related, though. She ruined the handkerchief my mother got me… not that there was much left of it to ruin it to begin with, I suppose.”

Lambert wasn’t a resentful person, and so Rodrigue wasn’t surprised by the lack of annoyance his friend showed at the loss of a gift from his mother. If anything, Lambert sounded faintly amused, his eyes crinkling with matching mirth.

In the candlelight, even the sight Rodrigue should be used to felt like a novel experience. He couldn’t help but look and drink in his friend’s face: his firm jaw, the bridge of his nose, his mouth; all of which had been dyed in red-orange glow.

There were many novels where such a scene would have led to something else entirely – too many that Rodrigue had read, far too many of them located in the monastery’s own archives and his own father’s personal library in Fraldarius.

At least he knew better than to think he had a chance with Lambert. The way his friend spoke of the innkeeper’s daughter only confirmed that further.

“Try it out,” Lambert said as he lifted the heavy mug to his smiling mouth. “It’s different from wine, but I think I prefer it.”

Beer was a soldier’s and a commoner’s drink, and Rodrigue had never had the chance to try it out until this moment. He eyed at the liquid warily, the scent of it already enough to convince him it would not be a drink he’d take to well.

But with Lambert already gulping down from his own mug, what choice did Rodrigue have but follow suit? People said the first sting was the worst, no matter what the cause behind the sting was, and the longer he prolonged facing it the worse it would be.

The first sip was the foulest thing Rodrigue had ever experienced in his eighteen years of life, and he had to fight off a grimace. Lambert, on the other hand, seemed unaffected and in good spirits.

“You’ll get used to it,” he promised Rodrigue, as easily as ever. “It takes a few sips at first.”

Alcohol probably was what he needed to get through the night, so he nodded, resigned to his fate – though, as he would question himself, was it truly suffering if he still got to be with Lambert like this?

There were only a few precious weeks left of the academy year, after all.

With that thought in mind, Rodrigue lifted the mug to his lips again and drank.

The second sip was indeed easier than the first.

* * *

Lucia returned with two plates of her mother’s pie – rhubarb, to Rodrigue’s pleasant surprise – and a promise of meat stew later into the night.

“You can’t very well eat yourself full before dancing, after all,” she said with a smile that tilted teasingly upwards. Her gaze flickered toward the connected tables and the new pair that had risen to stand on the wooden surface. “It might not be what you noble boys are used to, but that’s all the more reason to try it out.”

To Rodrigue’s eyes, the connected tables didn’t seem sturdy enough.

Lucia laughed at his concern – not scornfully, not belittlingly, but with faint amusement that nearly invited a laugh from Rodrigue as well. Her brown eyes flickered in the candlelight as she looked at him, and perhaps Rodrigue then understood why Lambert was so taken with her.

“Heavier men than the king – or the crown prince – of Faerghus have danced on our tables,” Lucia said, only faltering when she realized she hadn’t gotten his name yet.

“Rodrigue,” Lambert supplied in his stead. “He’s a friend of mine.”

Lucia snorted at that. “Thank you for clarifying, Egitte,” she teased. “I was under the impression you only shared dinner with your worst enemies, after all.”

Lambert laughed with her, and Rodrigue couldn’t help smiling either. She knew well they were nobles, yet she had no intention of cowering from them or minding the social distance. There was something fearless and comforting about that.

“You know what they say,” Lambert said, turning his eyes away from Lucia and toward Rodrigue. His hand moved to take Rodrigue’s. That, along with the warm expression that made Lambert’s face glow, took Rodrigue’s breath away. The Blaiddyd blue eyes glittered as Lambert finished cheerfully, “Keep your friends close and enemies closer.”

“Any closer and you’d be smooching,” she observed, with great humor in her voice. “Should I be worried about attempted murder at our tables tonight, huh?”

“I would _never_ , Lucia!” Lambert said through a fit of laughter as he leaned back and withdrew his hand from Rodrigue’s. His eyes remained on her, so he didn’t notice the subtle drop of Rodrigue’s usually so exemplary posture.

“So I _don’t_ need to keep an eye on you?” Lucia asked, raising a brow at Lambert in a manner that had Rodrigue looking away in discomfort.

He had rarely ever felt like a third wheel around his friend, but the feeling was there now as he rubbed his fingers against the sides of his mug of beer. Coldness seeped into his skin, but that was a familiar thing for everyone from Faerghus.

Perhaps he understood Rufus’ feelings better than he imagined he did, after all. The thought soured his mood, and so he took a long gulp of his beer. It burned down his throat in a manner different than wine, and the taste of it was overwhelmingly foul, but Rodrigue didn’t grimace as he put the mug down once more.

“I never said that,” Lambert was saying, voice sweet like honey and as sincere as he’d always been. Rodrigue turned his eyes back to his friend just in time to see Lambert throw a wink at Lucia. “In fact, I’d very much like if you did.”

Rodrigue would call it flirting if he didn’t know Lambert was like that with most people – even with him. Lambert was always squeezing his shoulder or tapping at his cheek for his attention. It was terribly distracting, especially when Rodrigue was supposed to be going through over his homework for his faith class.

Even if it wasn’t flirting, envy still squeezed at Rodrigue.

At least the rhubarb pie was delicious.

“Hey, Lucia!” a holler from another table rang through the inn. “Are you just gonna spend the entire night over there, huh? Some people are getting thirsty over here!”

A chorus of _yeah_ s and _fuck yeah_ s joined the gruff and drunken voice, and Rodrigue turned his head to see the group of men on the other side of the hall seated upon a wide, round table already filled with emptied pints of beer. Men with some decades on Rodrigue and Lambert, by the looks of their bearded faces and, for some, thinning hair.

“Oh, piss off, uncle Pete,” Lucia yelled back, a hand on her hip as she stood up straight. She was tall, imposing even as she faced the corner table the men surrounded. “Ma said to not let you drink any more than a pint an hour or else you’d start stripping off again. Once was enough!”

“Your ma’s a stick in the arse—”

“Oh, you _wish_ ,” another man crowed in with a low, rasping cackle. “Madam’s more like a rose thorn stuck on your buttocks, Pietr. Painful to sit on.”

“How does that make any sense?” Lucia huffed at the men, shaking her head as though she found them all equally hopeless. Her hair swayed with the movement, and Rodrigue caught Lambert looking at it with fascination that such a simple thing shouldn’t warrant. Even as she continued speaking, Lambert’s expression changed very little from utter fascination. “A rose doesn’t sting you if you don’t stick your arse on it, you know. Masochists, the lot of you.”

Rodrigue choked at the crude direction the conversation was going – and at how flippant and uncaring Lucia appeared about it. Her cheeks remained unflushed, but Rodrigue’s certainly didn’t.

He took another long sip from his beer, and it didn’t numb his mouth this time.

* * *

“Pietr was kicked out of Fhirdiad fifteen years ago,” Lucia told them later, sitting with them after she evidently had gotten permission from the innkeeper to take some time off. Her sisters and a brother were helping with the serving and cooking as it was. She had brought out more pie for them before settling on a chair herself, her fingers brushing back a curl of brown hair as she threw a smile at Lambert.

“Said he got tossed out of the city after he accidentally spilled wine on the queen consort’s new lovely gown,” Lucia went on, her smile skewed and not quite believing her own words. “He tells that story every time he’s around… which means that he tells it a _lot_. Changes every time, so no one knows the truth of it.”

“Why, we only have to ask the queen consort about it, don’t we?” Lambert said with barely held laughter. The mug before him was still full, for Lucia had also brought them more beer with her. “She has the sharpest memory in all of Fódlan… or so they say,” he added quickly when Lucia lifted a brow at him. “An event from fifteen years back should be easy enough to recall.”

“I doubt it is true,” Lucia said between bites from her piece of rhubarb pie. Crumbles of it stuck to the side of her mouth as she continued, “More than likely it’s because he’s an insufferable man with a habit for drink when he really ought to abstain.”

By now, music had already resumed – violins, flutes, and some instruments Rodrigue didn’t recognize by ear alone. The noise of all those instruments together buried the beats of Rodrigue’s heart beneath them, deep below where no one could catch the sound of them.

Beer had already made his cheeks tingle with a barely visible flush whereas Lambert remained his usual self, though perhaps he was a little more animated than he got when it was just the two of them.

Alcohol, it turned out, didn’t quite ease his anxieties.

“You seem quite fond of him,” Rodrigue murmured against the rim of his mug, eyes on both Lucia and Lambert but words directed to her alone.

A strand of dark hair threatened to slip to his face and he blew it away irritably until Lambert pitied him and leaned over to tuck it behind his ear. The brush of Lambert’s calloused fingers against his cheeks had Rodrigue’s face burning again, but he didn’t push away despite their additional company at the table.

“He’s like a second father to me,” Lucia said, but Rodrigue didn’t miss the curious look she gave them both. Her expression sobered as she went on, “The only father we’ve ever known, really. My true father ran out on us when I was a little girl. Pietr started frequenting here soon afterwards. Taught me all the wrong things about life, but isn’t that what fathers do?”

 _Isn’t that what fathers do,_ Rodrigue asked himself and thought of his own father, the proud Duke of Fraldarius.

He cut that train of thought off before it could advance further.

“Fathers and older brothers,” Lambert quipped, much too cheerfully for someone with a brother like Rufus Blaiddyd. But beneath that tone of cheer, Rodrigue heard the worry that had long been gnawing at his friend.

Lambert didn’t like talking about his own complicated feelings about Rufus, so he tended to cover them up with jokes that might not have been jokes. The last few years had been… difficult.

Rodrigue was not a violent man by any means but, by the goddess, Rufus deserved more than just a broken nose sometimes.

The thought made him grip his mug harder, and so he took another sip. When the mug came down again, his head felt lighter, his stomach heavier.

“Not you, though, Rodrigue,” Lambert went on, and the mild sorrow vanished entirely from his voice and countenance as he turned his eyes to Rodrigue. The emotion in them shone brighter than the moonlight outside of the inn. “Your little brother is lucky to have you. As am I.”

His eyes flicked to Lucia soon again, and he couldn’t even give Rodrigue a moment to cherish his previous words when he already said, “He’s like a brother to me.”

“Ah,” Lucia hummed in agreement, amusement thick in the single syllable. “Dining with enemies or dining with brothers – same difference.”

The beer wasn’t strong enough to make Rodrigue ignore the silly sting in his chest those words caused in him, even though he recognized that Lambert meant their bond was stronger than those of blood, stronger than even steel, unbreakable and unbending since their shared childhoods. Bond of friendship, of devotion unlike any other, but ultimately platonic and at war with Rodrigue’s feelings.

It was truly pathetic to find himself wanting for something else when Lambert had already given him so much of himself.

But love was an illness without a cure, and Rodrigue a long-suffering patient.

* * *

“Dance with me, Egitte,” Lucia said to Lambert with a voice that left very little options even for a crown prince – but, as Rodrigue saw Lambert’s lips curl up, it wasn’t as though he wanted to say no.

“It would be my pleasure,” Lambert said, pressing a kiss to her hand when she offered it to him, and so they were off to climb to the tables at the center of the hall while the group of old men whistled and, Rodrigue assumed, heckled Lambert on behalf of their almost-daughter.

Lambert had the decency to shoot an apologetic smile over his shoulder, but Rodrigue only waved it off with a smile of his own, although much smaller and more subdued than his friend’s.

His eyes remained on Lambert’s back, the muscles of which were nearly visibly through the white tunic now that Lambert had taken off the cloak from his shoulders. A sip of his drink couldn’t remove the tight, dry feeling in his throat that the sight of Lambert’s wide back left him with.

Music picked up again as Lambert and Lucia climbed onto the table, Lucia’s previously mostly tied-up hair falling to her shoulders this time. Tangled, wild thing, just like Lucia herself, Rodrigue thought. A little like Lambert, who had always had trouble following the rules and doing as he was told.

Combined with her dark brown eyes and confident posture, she was a woman that left an impression regardless of what she wore on herself.

Under the candlelight and on the table, this was made even more obvious, and the cheers rang loud all across the inn’s dining hall. Lucia had tossed her apron and scarf away before she had joined Lambert and Rodrigue at the table, and so Rodrigue got a better view of her deep green dress. For something an innkeeper’s daughter wore, it showed off quite a lot – mostly her shoulders, with everything else left to imagination.

It seemed surprisingly easy to move around in, Rodrigue thought.

The music picked up, and the pair began to move around each other on the surprisingly wide tables. Above the music, Rodrigue heard loud and rhythmical clapping from the hall’s other occupants, particularly from the men that had their eyes on Lambert.

Usually, Rodrigue mused distantly, situations like these tended to lead to fistfights. He had heard Rufus’ stories about barfights before. And Antoine’s, though Rodrigue could never tell how truthful his accounts of anything were.

He felt around his cloak and found the telltale bump of the knife’s hilt, and relaxed just a little bit.

There was no need to carry daggers on you, the academy staff had emphasized to the Blue Lion students at the start of the term, particularly the nobles, but only Lambert had truly let his guard down around the others near instantly. Rodrigue, who had grown up with the Fraldarius horror stories of betrayal and backstabbing, hadn’t.

A single dagger wouldn’t get them out of a fight, but… well, Lambert was a force on his own. It was Rodrigue who really needed the added layer of protection.

As Lambert’s boots and Lucia’s low heels clicked against the table surfaces, though, everyone’s attention went to them. Some whistling as Lucia linked their arms together and had them circle the table like that, their faces pointed in opposite directions and their eyes catching one another.

Even from where he sat, Rodrigue could feel the connection between them like a living, tangible thing, and it would be fine if this wasn’t happening right in front of him and with beer available.

He also saw the breathless smile on Lambert’s face, heard his overjoyed laughter over the music and the cheering and calling. It was a handsome smile, an even handsomer laugh, and Rodrigue shouldn’t have felt so terrible for witnessing it. And yet he did – hating himself for it as he tipped down the mug to his lips and gulped down more beer.

It killed anxiety poorly and healed a fractured heart as well as a lance to the knee healed leg problems. But Rodrigue had not yet learned this, and so for tonight, many more mistakes would be made.

Being a Fraldarius, perhaps this was the _only_ time he was allowed to make mistakes without costly consequences.

* * *

Lambert and Lucia danced as though their legs were made of springs and would never tire, and Rodrigue could not tear his eyes from them. A part of him could not help but worry that one of them might trip and fall from the tables, but both kept their balance remarkably well, as if the soles of their shoes were glued to the wooden surface.

Even among nobles and politicians, few were as charismatic or as well-liked as Lambert, the crown prince, was, and yet Lucia matched his energy without missing a beat and with a presence that demanded just as much attention as Lambert. Her skirts swished, as did her hair, and her laugh was raucous and contagious, a little breathless as Lambert playfully held her in one arm and twisted both of them around in a move that would have been dangerous if it weren’t Lambert.

If Rodrigue were closer, he would see the strain of Lambert’s biceps and other muscles through the white tunic, perhaps catch a glimpse of collarbone.

It was for the better that he wasn’t. His imagination did well enough a job already. He took another sip of beer, which tasted almost palatable by now.

Another thing occurred to him as he watched the pair: Lambert looked right in his element like this, dressed down and amid the common people, with nothing leashing him to the rigid rules of their homeland. A follow-up thought: this was not Rodrigue’s place.

His place to be was in the narrow halls of Castle Fraldarius and in the wider halls of Castle Fhirdiad, in a castle infirmary studying up anatomy and actual healing. If his father was asked, his place was in picking up his lackluster skill with the sword or die trying to prove his worth to the Sword of Moralta.

That was a cause of anxiety, too, but one Rodrigue had been exposed to his entire life and therefor a more familiar a demon.

Lambert, though, was the type that would fearlessly explore even the unknown if he was given the chance, and Rodrigue didn’t like the thought of being left behind.

Even though, he mused as he nursed his mug with both his hands and as he listened to Lambert’s loud, breathless laugh, he already was.

* * *

“Come with me,” Lambert said when he returned with his face flushed warm and sleeves rolled up to showcase his arms. Rodrigue’s eyes might have slipped to them more than once, to the thin scar that began above Lambert’s wrist and curled down into the lower arm.

He remembered how it happened (back in Fhirdiad, during a bout between Lambert and Rufus), and remembered his inability to heal it properly.

He and Lambert had been 12. It wasn’t expected of a 12-year-old to be able to do that, and yet Rodrigue felt guilty about it.

Rufus had been 16. He should have been the one feeling guilty, but Rodrigue knew well expecting that from him was the same as expecting the sun to rise from the west all of a sudden.

Rodrigue snapped from the memory lane when Lucia snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Egitte’s calling for you, pretty boy,” she was saying, pretend sternness in her voice that her flushed and happy countenance betrayed. Her hair, tangled and wild, framed her face in a way that Rodrigue knew drew Lambert’s attention. “Chop-chop.”

She was a woman used to getting her own way, and she pulled him to his feet before Lambert could, completely ignoring Rodrigue’s startled yelp. The world swayed, dangerously, but Lambert caught him by his arms before he could trip.

“Easy there,” the friend closest to Rodrigue’s heart murmured. The music had paused, and Rodrigue’s ears rung from how close Lambert’s voice came. “I’ve got you. Been drinking without me, have you?”

“Not much,” Rodrigue sniffed. “I know my limits.”

“Clearly,” Lambert said, and his smile was as warm as Rodrigue’s face felt. “Dance with me, won’t you, Rod? No tables, I promise.”

Rodrigue stared, and Lambert must have noticed as he blinked. A droplet of sweat ran down his cheek, and it was awfully distracting. “What? You thought you’d get out of dancing with me? Haven’t we done so since we were but children, you and I?”

Rodrigue didn’t say: _I thought you forgot me just now entirely_ , even if it was what had been on his mind.

Instead, he said, “We’re not children anymore, Lambert.”

Even so, he didn’t stop Lambert’s arm from draping around his waist and pulling him for a loose hug under Lucia’s watchful, and probably more than a little amused, eyes.

“No, we’re not,” Lambert agreed softly, “but we’re friends.”

* * *

Lambert was, by any and all accounts, a great friend.

That made Rodrigue greedy for wishing for something else; something that he knew well their stations in life would never leave room for.

 _Foolish child_ , his father’s voice whispered to him. As ever, his father wasn’t wrong.

* * *

Dancing with Lambert in the wild, lawless way Lambert had with Lucia would forever remain etched into the canvas of Rodrigue’s memories. There would be very few chances for him to repeat the occasion with anyone, much less Lambert who would be crowned in a matter of years from that moment.

Rodrigue’s hair ran free, and he couldn’t remember if he had even had it tied up when he went out with Lambert that night. Lambert’s smile was the same as it always was, and yet in the moment it felt as though Lambert was smiling only for him, only _at_ him.

Their arms linked once or twice through the dance, the common folk around the inn hollering over the music.

It was a scene to remember, and yet Rodrigue would remember painfully little of it in the following morning, not to mention the years to come.

It was alright, he would tell himself.

He had plenty of memories to spare, and plenty more to make – until they were both old men and with grandchildren.

One blank night among many others wouldn’t amount to too much in the bigger picture.

* * *

He fell asleep that night with the recent memory of Lambert offering Lucia a lingering kiss on her cheek and a quiet thank-you for letting them stay in her absent older brother’s room for the night.

“If you want to thank me,” Lucia had said, “come to visit me sometime after you’ve gone back to Fhirdiad, Lambert.”

Lambert’s soft hum was the last sound Rodrigue’s exhausted conscious recognized before he sank into a dreamless sleep.

What happened after that, he refused to even consider.

* * *

Next morning, he woke with a headache and limbs that weighed more than a steel lance and Lambert’s breath on his neck. One of those things was much nicer than the rest and more than enough to have Rodrigue linger in the comfort of the bed sheets far longer than he should have.

His mouth might be drier than the cold deserts of Sreng, but that hardly mattered.

What mattered later, however, was that Captain Jeralt himself came to drag them back to the monastery, looking none too pleased to have to hunt down some brats.

“Well,” Lambert said, much too cheerful even when hungover, as he clasped Rodrigue’s shoulder as they were faced with the captain of the knights. “We lived a good life, didn’t we, Rod?”

There were worse ways to end the academic year, Rodrigue supposed later in detention.

They could have done what Rufus did and tried to hit on a professor and ended up having to attend private counseling with Lady Rhea.

At least, like this, he could still stay by Lambert’s side. Even if he would _not_ keep quiet about Lucia now that Rodrigue had met her.

That was what he got for falling for someone with as singular interests as the crown prince of Faerghus.

**Author's Note:**

> "In Scotland, harebells and bluebells are symbolic of constancy and everlasting love. " :^)
> 
> i finished this at 4 am so i'm going to knock myself out 
> 
> side note: Lucia's 2-3 years older than Lambert and Rodrigue (who are 18). This doesn't particularly matter. It's just Lucia trivia.


End file.
